The File Cabinet
by Praetor Urbanus
Summary: My collection of story ideas. Forgive the dust and duct tape; these are all incomplete and may never be complete. If I think that one story in particular will play well, I'll note the continuation. The original will stay here. Rated M for safety.
1. Harry Potter: Heir of Norhaven

_Author's Introduction_

_This story was inspired by songhamdragon's _Harry Potter: Apprentice_ story. Some things worked well, others did not, but he definitely has my attention. If he should update it, I will certainly read it._

Six-year old Harry Potter couldn't believe it. He always knew that his cousin Dudley was a bully, but he had expected the teachers at least to notice and object to the big lump's behavior. _The first few weeks I can understand. But Dudley's been a bully all year. It's as if they don't give a crap about preventing these idiots from turning to crime!_

As you can see, Harry Potter was no ordinary boy. He was more intelligent than a great number of people his age. He knew it, but he didn't want anyone else to know it. Four years previous, he had been left on the doorstep of his absolutely horrid aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Vernon was a big (his waistline was bigger than his height) bully, and probably always had been, to Harry's young mind. He was also the strongest of the three Dursleys, and therefore the one to dish out all of Harry's 'punishments.' Petunia was quite the opposite, at least as far as appearances went. Behind the closed doors and windows of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey, she was the least violent and abusive. He could tell that she was not a nicer person than his Uncle Vernon, but she also seemed afraid of him. Dudley, even at almost seven years of age, was well on the way to becoming his father in miniature.

Harry was also different in one more way. He had discovered this almost by accident, when his aunt and uncle had left him locked in his cupboard under the stairs while they went somewhere with Dudley. He had gotten thirsty, and wanted a drink of water, but knew that the only way to get one was to get out of his 'bedroom.' As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he felt a rush of, _something_, from the pit of his stomach. It surged upward, traveled down his arm, and then… 'click!' The door to his cupboard swung quietly open.

Having discovered this power, Harry had decided to do some experimentation. He found that he could move objects without touching them. He had power over light, producing it when needed, bending it at his whim. He could manipulate fire, and was immune to its burning. Now, one year later, he had mastered these powers. He had decided to call this ability Magic, as he couldn't understand it beyond the fact that he had it. He thought that he was going to have to continue working hard at studying magic in secret, until he could use it to escape his current 'home'. _Home, yeah right! Prison, more like._

But on this twentieth of May, 1987, Harry Potter wasn't thinking about magic. He was at school, as usual, and running from his cousin, Dudley. That was also normal for the young wizard. And Harry had taken refuge in his favorite place: the library. Dudley never ventured in there, so Harry was safe. Since the school day was over, Harry was planning on staying here as long as he could. He wandered over to the fantasy literature, as he had countless times before, and opened a copy of some book about Merlin. Except the pages were somehow blank. Harry put his hand on what was supposed to have been the first page of the first chapter, and felt the most peculiar sensation, as if he was getting less solid, and _shifting_ to somewhere else.

He looked up, and saw that he was on a path. It twisted off in both directions, one going up, the other going down. Harry's first thought was to go back up, but something stopped him. He couldn't quite place it, but there was something down the other way, and it was calling him. At least, that seemed the best way to put it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could feel it more distinctly, and it felt like, _like my own magic, only different_.

So Harry, believing that this place could only be better than the hellhole he had been sentenced to, started down the path toward the feeling of power.

He walked for about an hour, and was staring to get hungry, when the path opened up onto a valley. He just stared in awe at the almost supernatural beauty of the place for a moment, unable to do more than take it all in. The path he was on came out between two mountain ranges, both of which got smaller with distance from his vantage point, almost looking like legs. The valley between them was green and gold, bathed in sunlight til it glowed. Beyond that, Harry could see rolling, green hills and farms, and still further away, rising above all else, a shining tower. The Tower was hard to make out at this distance, but the young wizard could feel something similar to his magic in it. If you had asked him why he thought the Tower was magic, he would not have been able to tell you, for he had no way of knowing himself.

A clatter behind him broke Harry's attention away from the scene in front of him. Coming down the path toward him trundled a wagon cart with what looked like a single man riding it. He quickly vacated the spot he'd just been standing in, not wanting to risk getting pushed out of the way by something bigger and heavier than his Uncle Vernon.

To his surprise, the man driving the cart pulled his horse to a stop almost right next to Harry. The man spoke to him, but the language was quite strange, and he couldn't understand. Somewhat confused, the stranger rubbed his chin, and then his eyes flashed gold. This time, Harry could understand him. "Hello, Little One. You look hungry." The stranger was a man, but attired in an archaic grey robe, with attached hood. He had a staff leaning against the backrest of the driver's bench within easy reach, and a sword at his side. _If he had a wide-brimmed pointed hat and a long beard, I'd almost mistake him for Gandalf Greyhame_, Harry mused.

The stranger seemed to ignore his silence, and continued kindly. "It wouldn't do for a young boy, or girl for that matter, to be caught alone on these paths. It's not entirely safe." Harry said nothing. "How about we make a deal? I tell you my name, and you tell me yours? Does that sound like a fair trade?" Harry nodded. "Excellent! My name is Merlin Ambrosius, young one.

Harry started. He had previously thought Merlin was a fictional character, much like the Grey Pilgrim he strangely resembled. "I'm Harry Potter," he finally said.

Merlin's reply was bright and cheery. "A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Potter. Come! I'm going down into the town, and we can get something to eat."


	2. A Game of Sorcery

Author's Intro:

This is something I've had bouncing around in my head for a while, now. I don't know if anything will come of it, but here it is for your perusal. It is by no means a finished work (or chapter), so if I do decide to turn this into a full story, it will get longer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. If I did, I would be too busy living the high life to write fanfiction. *sighs in sorrow over what could have been*

Chapter 1

Harold of House Baratheon blinked furiously. He'd been up til all hours discussing the politics of the Seven Kingdoms with his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, and retired to his chambers only after the candle they were using burnt out. _How does that manipulative old man make politics so fun? My father never had this kind of appreciation for the Game._

He sat up and stretched his arms. Today was his four-and-tenth Nameday! He was finally old enough to deal with some of his duties without his grandfather hovering over him. He was also old enough to be married. He'd met some of the young Highborn girls in the realm, and not many had impressed him.

After dressing in the livery expected of the heir of Casterly Rock, Harry went down to breakfast. Tywin was there, embroiled in debate about what sounded like farms. Harry listened carefully, as he had been taught, while waiting for his morning meal. He ate the food placed in front of him in the manner used by all Lords of the Realm, examining the topic of discussion in his mind. The farmers near Silverhill were apparently having problems with bandits stealing their crops, and had requested protection. The knights dispatched disappeared without a trace, and none of the locals had even seen them. The same thing happened to the second band of knights sent out.  
Harry thought he could see a solution. "Excuse me, Grandfather. I believe that there is a possibility that I have not heard from either of you." The Lord of Casterly Rock raised an eyebrow. "What possibility would that be, Harold?"

Harry replied carefully, to ensure that he was not misunderstood. "The knights sent to root out these bandits disappeared without a trace. That indicates that the bandits are unusually well-armed and trained. Since the farmers reported no bandits equipped to deal with knights, one might logically say that the farmers are in league with the bandits. For what purpose, if true, I can only speculate. The most likely is that the knights' armor and weapons are being sold for gold, in which case, the farmers likely receive a small portion of the proceeds."

Tywin Lannister looked pensive, and a little disturbed. "And what happens to the knights themselves?"

"I see two possibilities: one, they are killed immediately, two, they are secretly ransomed back to their families. The latter would be the more practical option, as it would raise more gold, but the risks are higher. The former seems to have the greater support, as I have not heard anyone say that one or more of the knights were found yet."

Harry gave himself a wholly internal pat on the back as his grandfather turned to the other lord. "I want you to send spies to observe markets for armor and weapons. Blacksmiths could sell stolen goods, claiming to have made them, without raising suspicion. Try to confirm my grandson's theory."

The other lord left, looking somewhat bewildered. _Apparently he is unaccustomed to being in my presence_, Harry thought with a bit of smugness. He had been told on several occasions that he should watch his arrogance, lest he come to trouble by men or the gods, but he always had the same retort: _It's not arrogance if you have the mind to back it up._

Tywin Lannister wore the face a a satisfied man. "Harold, you do our family proud. You are perceptive, cunning, and well-suited to play the Game. I believe that one day you will make a fine Hand of the King for your brother."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence.

After handling some of the duties as Warden of the West, the Lord of House Lannister and his grandson, the prince, took a walk in the gardens. "How are your studies progressing?"

Harry answered easily. "Better. I have made more progress controlling my gift in the past two years trying to replicate the myths and legends than I did in five years with all the tomes and scrolls in the Citadel." He paused. "I think that may have had something to do with the decline of magic."

As usual for these discussions, Tywin was intrigued; "How do you mean?"

"Think about it. Sorcerers and wizards stopped writing down the secrets of the arcane arts centuries or millenia ago. Otherwise, the tomes on the subject wouldn't be completely useless. That made it harder for anyone with the gift to learn to harness it outside of direct apprenticeship. As it is hard to get apprenticeships outside an organization like the Maesters, the number of students studying magic must have shrunk. As they had not studied, fewer and fewer people could use their gifts. This process continued until magic became as scarce as it is today."

Tywin smiled. Harry didn't see him do that often, but when he did, he meant it. "Yes. That makes perfect sense. How would someone go about disproving you?"

Harry pondered for a few minutes. Then it came to him. "By searching for records of a witch hunt or similar violent struggle against magic-users. If there had been such a movement, it would have taken great pains to wipe out the things necessary for learning magic, including any tomes written by ancient sorcerers. That might also help explain why people today fear magic when they believe in it at all; the witch hunters re-writing the myths to show only the harsh, cruel side of magic would tend to produce that outcome."

Tywin and Harry continued their conversation and their walk through the gardens. As per custom with these two, they both had a productive and stimulating time. They were so embroiled in their discussions that lunch had to be put in front of them by servants right there. Neither one really noticed it, even when they began eating.

Later that day, the current and future lords of Casterly Rock returned to the castle proper. They did, after all, have a Nameday celebration to attend.

Harry's favorite guest was his uncle, Tyrion. The man was shorter than Harry, and much less attractive, but their minds were equally matched. The Imp could discuss politics as shrewdly as his father, without the baggage of excessive cynicism. He was also much more fun to joke with.

"Beloved nephew!" Tyrion half-shouted as he entered the Great Hall. "You look as intelligent as ever." "And you look like you've had your nose in a book all day, Uncle," Harry cheekily replied.

The Half-man laughed. "I have indeed been devouring something delicious. It was, however, disappointing in its conversation."

During the party, a servant walked up to the young Prince, a letter clutched in his hand. "Pardon, milords, but this arrived for the young Prince." Harry looked somewhat confused. Letters were rather rare in the Seven Kingdoms. "And who delivered it?"

The servant said, nervously, "An owl, milord. I tried to shoo it off, but it's still over there, waiting for a reply."

Sure enough, there was a large bird sitting on the windowsill. It looked rather impatient, Harry thought, for him to open the correspondence. "All right, give it here." The servant handed him the letter.

The envelope seemed to have his place of residence on it. The name was quite wrong, though.

_Mr. Harry Potter_

_The bedchamber in the North Tower, fourth floor_

_Casterly Rock_

_The Westerlands_

Thoroughly confused, Harry opened the envelope and took out the letter.

_Mr. Potter,_

_We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on the first of September. Enclosed is a list of materials all first years will need. Due to certain unusual circumstances, this letter will act as a portkey to the Leaky Cauldron, where a member of the staff will be waiting to guide you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_M. McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_

Harry looked up from the letter, a look of befuddlement on his face, but he barely had time to meet his grandfathers eyes before he felt a hard tug in his midriff. He seemed to be spinning, the letter clutched in his hand tightly enough to wrinkle it. He wondered how long this uncomfortable sensation would last.

No sooner than he had that thought, he landed hard on his arse. He still felt dizzy, and he still had the letter in his hands. His dagger, too, was still in its sheath in his boots. At least he wasn't helpless. He looked up, and saw a woman more severe than any Septa and a giant of a man in front of him. _In the name of the Seven, what have I gotten myself into?_


End file.
